


Paralyzing Emotion

by withthekeyisking



Series: Eating Away at What is Good [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Breathplay, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Choking, Collars, Come Swallowing, Conditioning, Creepy Roman Sionis, Daddy Kink, Dick Grayson Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt Dick Grayson, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Subspace, aka jason just died, gotta admit dick's super subby in this, he hits his kids ladies and gents and enbys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22458112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Jason Todd is dead, and Bruce Wayne has once more cast his eldest son out.There's a phone number in Dick's mind that he promised himself he'd never call. But he never expected...this.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Roman Sionis
Series: Eating Away at What is Good [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616026
Comments: 40
Kudos: 316
Collections: Dick Grayson Rare Pair Challenge





	Paralyzing Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> I promised this would be up, and here it is!! Haha! This right here is self-improvement. Look at me, keeping to a schedule for once.
> 
> Also my thanks to [greyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyheart) for finding the panels between Bruce and Dick after Jason's death, as well as some of Dick's reactions to Jason's death with the Titans.
> 
> Now enjoy!

Dick can't breathe. He—he can't breathe, he—

Jason's dead. _Jason_ is _dead._ His little brother is dead and Bruce—

_It should've been you._

Dick leans over and vomits. He hasn't really eaten anything today, so no more than bile comes up, and it does nothing to quell the nausea rolling in his gut.

_It's your fault._

He can't—he can't _breathe—_

His face throbs, and he knows a nasty bruise must be forming—Bruce certainly packs a punch—but he can barely feel it over the roaring in his head, replaying all of Bruce's words over and over again. He wasn't there, if he had been Jason wouldn't be dead, it's _his fault—_

He needs to get his breathing under control, or he's going to pass out. He tries to employ the breathing techniques Bruce taught him, the other ones his _parents_ taught him, but they slip away from him like water. His chest burns and he presses a fist against it, feeling the pounding of his heart. He knows what a panic attack is, of course he does. He knows he should call someone, like Kori or Roy maybe, since he clearly isn't getting this under control himself.

Neither of them are the one Dick calls.

When he was given this phone number, he'd sworn to himself that he'd never use it. That he'd never do this to himself, not again. He hadn't even put it in his phone, like that was his line in the sand, saying he Would Not Call. He hadn't realized until this moment that he's memorized the number, that the ten digits come easily to his mind, no hesitation as his thumb moves quickly across his phone screen.

How many nights had he spent staring at the little piece of paper before he'd finally had the strength to burn it? How many nights had he spent clutching it after waking up from very _specific_ dreams, hating himself for the swirl of emotions clouding his mind?

Enough that the number stuck, apparently.

His pulse is loud in his ears as he listens to it ring. The corners of his vision are spotting with black; he isn't getting nearly enough oxygen into his lungs, and his head is turning fuzzy. He needs—he needs—

_Give your key to Alfred on your way out._

He doubles over again, but there's nothing in his stomach to expel, so he simply retches, clutching at his gut.

_"Yes?"_

Dick freezes. He—obviously he knew who would answer the phone. He knew whose number this is. But he hasn't heard the low, smooth voice in about two and a half years, and it shakes him to the core more than he thought it would. He feels like a child, brought to heel by one simple word.

 _"Whoever you are, you're wasting my time,"_ the voice drawls, and there's an edge of steel to his voice that makes Dick shudder, an apology on the tip of his tongue, a reflex for whenever the man spoke like that. Because if there was steel in his voice then Dick must've screwed up, must've been bad and done something wrong—

But he's done nothing wrong this time _(killed Jason killed Jason killed Jason—)_ and has nothing to apologize for. Not that he could get the words out even if he did, no air in his lungs to voice the words.

All he can croak out is a desperate, _"Roman."_

There's a pause, long enough to send panic thrumming through his veins, expecting rejection from _another_ person, and then what would he do, how could he face everyone if Bruce hated him and even Black Mask cast him aside—?

 _"Richard,"_ Roman Sionis purrs, sounding pleased, and Dick feels something in his chest relax ever-so-slightly at the knowledge that he's done something right, that Roman's happy with him, that _someone_ is happy with him. _"It's so good to hear from you. Are you alright?"_

"I—I can't, I—" He's started to hyperventilate again, whatever semblance of control that came to his breathing when he was retching is completely gone now. He can see Bruce's face, wrathful and hating, standing above him in the cave. It's his fault, it's _all his—_

 _"Oh, sweetheart,"_ Roman coos. _"It's okay. Where are you?"_

Dick looks around, trying to identify his location. When he left the Manor he'd just kept going, running until his body felt like it was on fire, until all he could hear was the words Bruce had screamed at him, all he could see was the mangled Robin costume, all he could feel was the bruise growing on his face that he surely deserved.

"It's my fault," Dick gasps out. "It's—it's my fault, I did this, he's dead because of me—"

 _"Richard,"_ Roman says again, and Dick falls instantly still, the warning in Roman's voice chilling him to the core. No, he wants to be good, he wants someone to tell him he's good, that he's not a failure, that he didn't kill his little brother— _"Tell me where you are. Right now."_

He tries to focus, examine his surroundings. Bruce would be appalled by his inattention.

There's a street sign a few feet away, and he squints to make out what it says. It's dark and his vision is blurry and he starts to feel panicked again, that he can't even do something this simple, can't even—no, breathe. No. He can do this. It's...There's an eight. An eight and a...that's a three. No, a two.

"Eighty-second Street," Dick gets out. "I—there's an apartment complex near me, and a few dumpsters, and I think I see—see a hotel with some kind of red logo—" He's babbling by this point, but he can't bring himself to care. "I don't...I don't know how I got here. I..."

 _"I'm on my way,"_ Roman tells him, and Dick holds onto the words, onto the fact that someone is coming for him, someone cares even if Bruce thinks he's worthless, even if he should've died instead of Jason. _"Stay where you are."_

"Okay," Dick whispers, but the line's already gone dead, leaving Dick alone once more, wondering what the hell he's doing.

* * *

Two and a half years ago, when Roman gave Richard the number to his personal phone, he didn't know whether or not anything would come of it.

The boy had been...broken, so delightfully so, aided along by Roman, of course. But after a few weeks had gone by, Richard had slowly started to come back into himself, and then one day he was simply gone.

Roman had been impressed, actually. That the kid had managed to completely vanish for a little while, unable to be found by Roman's numerous contacts, before popping up a few weeks later in _Bludhaven,_ of all places. And—even worse—attending the _police academy._

So Roman had dropped by. Just a quick little visit to remind Richard of who he was leaving—who he _belonged_ to at the end of the day—and then on a whim had written down the phone number and left it with him. A chance for the future.

He hadn't been sure whether Richard would ever actually use the number, or if he really was as put together as he'd seemed.

Well. Roman's certainly glad he gave it to him.

Richard's location is about a fifteen minute drive, so Roman takes the time to do a little research. To be honest Roman hasn't really kept up with the Wayne family drama—he's had a very busy two years—but apparently the second boy Wayne took in died recently. Cute kid. But considering it was apparently an accident, Roman has no idea why Richard's blaming himself for the death.

 _"It's—it's my fault,_ _I did this, he's dead because of me—"_

Not that Roman's _complaining,_ of course. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that. Richard's obviously distressed, apparently dissociating if he doesn't know how he got to his location, and he only would've called Roman if Wayne had failed somehow and he felt he had nowhere to go.

Roman wonders if Wayne even has any idea the power he holds over Dick Grayson, how a dismissal from him destroys the boy's entire world, enough that he allowed himself to belong to Roman for _weeks_ before he got himself to leave. And if Wayne _does_ understand, then he's far crueler than Roman imagined, and that's quite the pleasing thought.

Too bad the man isn't smart enough to take advantage of it, though. Richard is such a devoted, beautiful boy...

It isn't raining like the night they met, but it _is_ cold, so Roman's brought an extra coat with him for Richard. Roman's such a _caretaker,_ after all. And the boy is so starved for kindness and affection that even small things like this seem to endear him to the ones giving him whatever scraps of attention they do.

Roman remembers asking Richard about it one night, what Wayne's parenting was like to make him so starved in the way he is. Richard had been uncomfortable with the subject—always was, whenever Wayne came up—but he'd answered the question like a good little boy, telling him how Brucie might be affectionate with the world but wasn't like that at home, that he was distant and not a hugger and slow to praise.

Richard has been quick to tell him about Wayne's _good_ parenting qualities too, but Roman was far less interested in those, and had promptly given Richard something else to do with his mouth.

"Turning onto Eighty-second Street, boss," his driver tells him. "Indigo Inn up ahead."

It had taken just a few seconds of googling to find that the hotel with the red logo on 82nd street was the _Indigo Inn,_ strangely named considering apparently nothing about it is indigo, instead having a very red theme throughout. Not that it has any relevance to Roman's life, save its proximity to his current object of fascination.

And _there_ he is. Huddled against the wall of an apartment complex, arms wrapped tightly around himself, shoulders hunched, head ducked down. He's not wearing a jacket or even a sweater, just a white button down over his blue jeans, and Roman isn't surprised to see that he's shaking. Probably not just from the cold.

The driver opens the car door for him and Roman steps out, adjusting his own wool coat as he does, grabbing the other coat as well. The extra is one of his larger ones, one that's even a smidge too big on him; he chose it purposefully, knowing it would hang quite loose around the boy, emphasizing the difference between them in Richard's mind. It would make Richard feel small and young, especially compared to Roman's perceived size.

Roman's old hat at manipulation.

Richard's head jerks up at the footsteps approaching him, eyes wild, and the large bruise on the side of his face gives Roman pause. It's ugly and dark, a mottled mess of purple and blue and red, spanning from the edge of his eye down to his jaw. Whoever hit him, hit him _hard._

"Hi, sweetheart," Roman says, pitching his voice soft and low, a nonthreatening presence. He sees Richard's grip on himself tighten. "How about we get you out of the cold, hmm?"

He can see Richard's chest moving rapidly, now that he's close enough. It's not the same heaving breaths he heard over the phone, but it's certainly far faster than is healthy, short little bursts of air that probably aren't helping his panic in the slightest.

Roman holds up the coat and says, "Come on," nodding towards the clothing, warm from the heating in the car. Richard takes a hesitant step forward, then another, and then allows Roman to wrap the coat around his shoulders. He lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, unconsciously leaning towards Roman and the warmth he brings with him.

Considering Richard can't see him, Roman allows himself a small smirk as he places a hand in the small of the boy's back and guides him towards the car.

"I shouldn't go with you," Richard mutters, blinking his eyes open again so he can watch where they're going and not trip over the curb. "This is a bad idea."

"Hush now," Roman says, working to keep the amusement out of his voice; it's _cute_ that Richard thinks he has a say in the matter, after dragging Roman all the way out here in the middle of the night. "Just let me take care of you."

Richard's eyes cut over to him sharply, and Roman isn't surprised that hit a nerve. The boy might be distressed but he's not intoxicated like he was before, which means Roman has to put in some extra effort. Of course, the groundwork's already been laid, and Wayne truly does half the work for him.

He gets him into the car with minimal trouble, and then sits closer to him than is technically necessary, but Richard barely seems to notice. As soon as he's sitting down he curls in on himself, pressing his forehead against his knees, arms a vice grip around himself like that's all that's keeping him from falling apart. His breathing's starting to pick up again, steadily making its way towards hyperventilation.

Roman just watches him for a moment, considering, and then places a hand on the back of Richard's neck, rubbing soothing circles into his chilled skin. The boy goes rigid, and for a moment Roman thinks he's going to attempt to shake him off, but then Richard _melts,_ still shaking but pressing up into the touch.

"You're okay now, sweetheart," Roman tells him, keeping his touch firm. "I've got you."

"It's my fault," Richard gasps out, and Roman can hear the tears in his voice. "Jay's dead, he's _dead,_ I killed him, it's my fault—"

Roman raises an eyebrow, lips quirking. "How's that?"

"I—" Richard starts, and then pulls himself up short, breath catching. Roman frowns when Richard fails to continue; he thought the boy knew better than to keep secrets from him. Apparently two years had taught Richard the rules didn't apply to him. Well, they'll have to fix that.

"Richard," Roman says, a warning in his voice, and the boy shudders, an upset noise finding its way out of his throat.

"I'm sorry," he says hoarsely. "I'm—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

Roman shushes him, and wonders who Richard's actually apologizing to, and for what.

"Who gave you that bruise?" Roman asks, squeezing the back of Richard's neck in an attempt to get his attention through the episode the boy's currently going through.

_"Bruce."_

Roman almost doesn't hear the faint answer, Richard barely doing more than mouthing the name, and then Roman simply has to blink for a moment, because— _what._ Bruce Wayne actually _hit_ his kid? Roman has to admit, he did not expect that from the playboy. Brucie never struck him as...violent.

Then again, there's all those scars Richard has to consider, the ones the boy had tiredly given explanations for, explanations that might've fooled the general public but certainly hadn't fooled Roman. Maybe there's a darker underbelly to Wayne that he does an excellent job of concealing.

The details of Jason Todd's death were very vague in the reports Roman read; an attempt to be respectful for the grieving family of a dead child, or something more sinister? Maybe that's why Richard seems determined to blame himself; if he knew about Wayne's more violent side and said nothing, and Wayne did something to the Todd boy, then Roman can see Richard feeling responsible.

"It looks painful," Roman comments. He glances out the window; they're almost back to his penthouse.

Richard lets out a strangled laugh. "Yeah," he agrees, and finally pushes himself into an upright seated position. He's smiling, but it's in no way a happy expression. Unshed tears make his blue eyes shine. "Yeah, Bruce hits hard. _Fuck,_ I earned it though, I deserved it, I—"

"Hey," Roman says sharply, seeing that Richard was about to devolve back into his panic, and grips his chin tightly in his hand, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. Richard flinches but doesn't pull out of his grip, eyes slightly wide as he looks at Roman's own. "Stop it."

"Sorry," Richard whispers, and it seems more like a reflexive response to Roman's ire than anything else, which is certainly pleasing. Always good to see the remains of conditioning, even years after the fact.

"Oh sweetheart," Roman says, tone sympathetic, and feels the car pull to a stop. His driver gets out and moves around, opening the backdoor. Roman slides out and then offers his hand to Richard, a symbolic gesture more than a necessary one, and after a hesitant moment Richard puts his hand in his, allowing himself to be pulled out of the car.

When they get to the elevator, Roman notices that Richard's jaw is clenched shut, his free hand a tight ball at his side. He doesn't know what's going through the boy's mind at the moment, but it doesn't matter overly much; a few more minutes and Roman will have complete control again, have his boy back—some self-hatred in the kid's head at the moment won't make a difference, even if he's doubting his actions.

The elevator stops, and they enter the penthouse. Two of his men are inside, standing guard, and he dismisses them with a wave of his hand; Richard had always been uncomfortable around his False Facers, physical reminders of who, exactly, he was in bed with, and Roman doesn't need to tip the balance at the moment. Not yet.

Roman leads Richard through the penthouse towards his office. In the corner of his eyes he can see the boy looking around with an uneasy expression, lips pursed, and Roman wonders what's going through his mind at the moment, if he's remembering all the things they've done _all_ over the penthouse.

Roman has to suppress a smirk.

"Sit down," he says gently once they reach his office, gesturing Richard towards the chaise off to the side. He heads towards his desk, not bothering to check if his instruction is being followed—he _knows_ it is—and then puts in the passcode for the bottom drawer. It opens with a quiet hiss, and Roman's gaze flicks over the contents of the drawer before he finds what he's looking for and pulls it out.

When he stands again, he looks over to find Richard sitting with his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. He's saying something under his breath, fingers curling cruelly against his skin and leaving indents with his nails. He truly does look young wrapped up in the too-big coat, and Roman watches him casually as he sheds his own and hangs it on the rack near the door, then removes his gloves and tosses them onto the desk.

He strolls over to the chaise, steps unhurried. Richard doesn't look up at him or acknowledge his new proximity, but the way his shoulders hitch up ever-so-slightly tell Roman that the boy is very aware of his presence.

Roman reaches out, running his fingers through Richard's hair. It's a little longer than it was two years ago, and Roman finds that he likes it; he never reached getting Richard to wear a leash, but dragging someone around by their hair is a nice second place.

Richard's breath hitches, body tensing for a moment, but as per usual he relaxes almost immediately under the soft touch, any potential fight draining out of him, leaning his head against Roman's hip and tilting up into the stroking hand.

Wayne's such an idiot. A few gentle touches and a kind word here and there and he'd never have to worry about Richard running off to get affection somewhere else. He certainly wouldn't have driven the boy right back into Roman's hands.

Ah well. It's not like Roman wants to complain about the situation.

"Do you want to tell me what you want, Richard," Roman asks evenly, "or do you want _me_ to tell you what you want?"

Richard lifts his head slowly, looking up at Roman with a furrowed brow. "I don't..."

Roman tuts. Richard twitches. "Come now, you know," Roman disagrees. "You know why you're here. I'm just wondering if you can admit it to yourself, and to me."

The boy shakes his head slightly. "I don't know why I called you," he says hoarsely, and he sounds sincere. Roman withholds a sigh. "I just—he kicked me out again and my brother is dead and I couldn't face my friends and—" He's sending himself into a panic again, so Roman shushes him, just stroking his hair while he waits for the boy to calm down. Such messy emotions.

"That's okay, sweetheart," Roman says once Richard no longer sounds on the edge of hyperventilating. "You can't admit it, but that's okay. I'll admit it _for_ you."

Before Richard can voice any response to that, Roman places two fingers underneath his chin and tilts his head back as far as it will go, arching his neck and probably making his breathing a little strained. Richard doesn't fight the position, just looks up at Roman with lost, wary blue eyes, waiting to see what will happen next. _Accepting_ whatever happens next, whatever Roman plans to do to him.

And the boy says he doesn't know why he's here. Ridiculous.

Roman produces the item he grabbed from his desk, holding it up so Richard can see it. The boy's eyes go wide with surprise, and they dart up to look at Roman as if expecting him to say it's actually a joke. When he sees no such response in the man, Richard starts to jerk back, body tensing as if to run or fight.

But it's no trouble at all for Roman to turn his hand slightly to grab ahold of Richard's throat, grip _tight,_ easily holding him in place. Richard chokes and his hands fly up to pull at Roman's hand, instinctively working to free his airway, but Roman makes a displeased noise, frowning, and Richard freezes, gasping up at him.

And then he lowers his hands back to his sides, clutching at the edge of the chaise.

Roman smiles. "Good boy," he praises, and Richard's eyelids flutter, a needy sound making its way out of his throat without conscious thought. His cheeks flame bright red. Roman's smile grows.

He lightens his grip a little, just enough to let the boy get a thin but steady stream of air into his lungs. Richard's shoulders slump at that, relieved, and Roman asks, "What do you say?"

Richard stares up at him, blinking like he doesn't understand what Roman wants from him, which Roman knows is bullshit. He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip again, and Richard spasms, clearly fighting the urge to fight him off so he can _breathe._

Eventually, when he sees Richard starting to drift towards unconsciousness, Roman once again loosens his hand just a little. Richard sucks in all the air he can gratefully, still not anywhere near full lung capacity but enough to keep the black spots at bay.

"What do you _say?"_ Roman prompts again, tone far harder this time.

Richard twitches at the steel in his voice and finally says, "Thank you."

Well. Not _quite_ what Roman wanted—an important word is missing from that statement of gratitude—but it has been two and a half years, so Roman will accept it for now, loosening his grip further, now just holding the boy in place rather than restricting airflow.

"Very good," Roman murmurs, and tilts his hand up to force Richard to tilt his head far back again, as far as it can go. It probably hurts, at least a little. That's good. "Now _stay."_

Richard swallows, but when Roman pulls his hand away, he _does_ hold the position, panting just a little, and he eyes the item in Roman's hand warily as he lifts it.

"You called me," Roman says, voice low and smooth and ever so compassionate, "because you apparently consider yourself responsible for your brother's death." Richard's breath hitches. "And going by that bruise on your face, I'd say Wayne blames you, too." Richard's shaking now, his eyes glistening. "Once again, your father decided you aren't worth being in his life."

"I—"

"And so here you are again," Roman keeps pushing. "Unwanted and unloved, betrayed by the very person charged with your protection."

"Please," Richard sobs, and when he blinks a few tears finally fall, sliding down his red cheeks. "I—Roman, _please—"_

Roman wonders if the boy even knows what he's asking for.

"So you came to me," Roman coos. "Because you know I'll take care of you. I can give you what you need, sweetheart. You know I look after what belongs to me."

Richard shudders, breath hitching as he cries silently, and he doesn't do a single thing to stop Roman as the man lifts the collar in his hand and wraps it around the boy's neck, sliding the buckle into place.

It's a simple thing, expensive and elegant. The leather is black and thick, the buckle and the D-ring shining silver. There's a definite weight to it, and he watches Richard adjust his posture for it, hesitantly reaching a hand up to his throat to feel the new addition.

"You want what you've always wanted," Roman tells him. "Someone to _want_ you. To take care of you. To tell you you're _good._ And sweetheart, you came to the right place."

Roman leans down and kisses Richard, deep and forceful and claiming, one hand going around to the back of the boy's neck to hold him in place. Richard startles, like _somehow_ he wasn't expecting it, but when Roman bites at his bottom lip he opens his mouth and lets Roman do as he wants, a shiver running down his spine when Roman makes an approving noise.

Eventually Roman draws back, straightening. Richard blinks up at him, lips parted and eyes glassy, one hand still clutching at the collar around his neck.

"My brother's dead," the boy says numbly, and Roman hums in agreement.

"He is," the man says. "So why don't you tell me what you want, baby."

He can see Richard trying to think his answer through. They've already gone over what he wants, Roman spelling it all out for him. But now he's going to make him say it, ask for it. And Roman _will_ wait until he gets the answer he's after.

"I want to—" Richard starts, then cuts himself off, clearing his throat. His eyes dart away, embarrassed, but all Roman has to do is tap a finger against his jaw and those blue eyes lock back onto his. "I want to be—I want to not—to just—" His face scrunches up, frustrated with himself for not being able to voice what's in his head, but that's okay. He said enough. Roman can supply the rest.

"You want to be good for me," Roman purrs. "You want to not think for a while, to just do _well._ You want to fall and have someone catch you, don't you, sweetheart?"

Richard's eyes are wide, like he can't believe Roman understands. But Roman's been in this game a _long_ time, and this isn't his first pretty, broken thing with too high expectations for themself. Roman knows how to handle this, he's done it before.

But none of them were as delicious as having Bruce Wayne's son.

"Yeah," Richard says hoarsely. "Yeah."

"That's right," Roman murmurs, stroking his thumb over the boy's cheek. "Now, on your knees, sweetheart."

There's a moment of hesitation, Richard's tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously, and then he slides off the chaise, settling on his knees in front of Roman.

And, well, Roman doesn't think that will ever _not_ make him feel powerful. This boy is the heir to a multibillion-dollar company, has a trust fund that's probably almost as big, and is currently an active member of the Bludhaven Police Force. This is _Bruce Wayne's son._ It's a bit of a power trip, having the boy kneeling at his feet, wearing a collar he gave him.

"Very good," Roman says, because he _can,_ and the remaining tension in Richard's body melts away, a slow breath easing it all out.

Roman undoes his belt and goes to toss it aside, but pauses, an idea popping into his head. He leans around behind Richard, ignoring the way the boy twitches at not having him in line of sight anymore. Roman grabs one of Richard's wrists, then the other, and pulls them together in the small of his back, wrapping the belt quickly around them. Richard's arms flex, automatically testing the binding, but the leather holds, the metal of the buckle clinking.

Roman moves back around and crouches in front of Richard, then starts undoing the buttons of his shirt. Richard shifts, unsettled by the silence, but voices no complaints as Roman gets it open and pushes it down his arms, letting it catch at the belt.

"Gorgeous," Roman tells the boy, running his hand over his abs. He says it to feed into Richard's desire, but he's not lying; the kid's carved like a Greek god, all hard muscle and golden skin. He's got a few more scars than he did two years ago, and it still makes Roman terribly curious.

Maybe this time he'll actually get a straight answer about where Richard's gotten them all, because that years-old scar on his hip resembles a gunshot wound far more than it does a—what did he say before?—oh, yes, a _splunking_ accident.

But they'll have time for that later. For now...

Roman pushes himself back to his feet, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it onto the chaise, then rolls up his sleeves. Richard tracks the motion, arms twisting behind him, and swallows. Roman wonders what's going through Richard's mind, if he's picturing the times Roman held him down or simply held him, petting his hair or grabbing tight handfuls of it. Roman's happy to give a repeat performance of it all.

He undoes his pants button and zipper, and then pulls out his cock. He's half hard already—who wouldn't be after all this?—and strokes himself leisurely, watching the way Richard's gaze is darting between his face and his groin. He looks like he's rethinking being here, like he's considering the fact that this is a bad idea and he should leave.

Roman doesn't care.

He tilts his hips forward, cock brushing against Richard's chin and lips. Richard purses his lips, and Roman almost wants to laugh; it's adorable, that small rebellion. Stupid and pointless, of course, but adorable nonetheless. As is the way Richard twitches when Roman makes a disapproving noise, before cautiously parting his lips.

"Ah," Roman breathes, thrusting into Richard's mouth. _"There_ we go. _Good_ boy."

Richard whimpers, and makes a clear effort to relax his body, head tilting up to a better angle, allowing Roman to slip deeper into his throat. Roman is happy to take advantage, fucking the warm, wet heat of the teenager's mouth, into the delicious pressure of his throat. Richard's tongue flutters against the underside of his cock, licking to the best of his ability, and Roman hums with pleasure.

 _"Yes,"_ Roman says, drawing out the _S,_ "very good, Richard. So good for Daddy."

Richard's eyelids flutter, and when he moans, his throat vibrates around Roman's cock, making his breath catch. He reaches out and grabs a handful of Richard's black locks, and uses the hold to keep control of Richard's head as he begins to thrust in earnest, fucking in and out of the boy's throat. Richard takes it and takes it, eyelashes clumping with tears, drool spilling down his chin and onto the collar, chest flushed and heaving with the breaths he manages to drag in around Roman's cock.

He looks gorgeous and fucked out and _owned,_ and it's that thought that sends Roman over the edge, coming down Richard's throat after a few final brutal thrusts.

Richard spasms, choking, and squeezes his eyes shut as he attempts to swallow Roman's cum instead of asphyxiate on it. Some dribbles down his chin as Roman pulls out, dripping onto the floor and Roman's Oxfords. He eyes the spot with disdain; these shoes are Brunello Cucinelli, and cost almost two thousand dollars.

He tucks himself away as Richard coughs, hunching over and dragging in air desperately. He's shaking again. Roman debates, and then pets his hand over Richard's head, a soothing gesture.

"You did so well," Roman coos. "Such a good boy."

"Guh," Richard says. It could be a word or an acknowledgement or just the first thing that pops into the boy's head, but Roman doesn't care overly much. It's not _Thank you, Daddy,_ so it's not important.

They've got time. Roman will make sure of it.

* * *

Dick focuses on breathing, and nothing else.

He can feel Roman's hand running over his hair, and the leather of the belt digging into his wrists, and the weight of the collar, and the hardwood floor beneath his knees, but all of that is secondary to _breathing._

When his lungs feel a little less wet and he feels a little more in control, he straightens again, tilting his face up to look at Roman. The man looks—pleased, looks happy with him, and Dick lets out a breath, eyes sliding shut, leaning into the soft touch over his head.

"So good," Roman tells him, and Dick lets himself believe it, lets himself bask in this moment where nothing else matters except for the fact that because of his actions, someone is happy. Roman is happy for no other reason than the fact that Dick did something to make him that way.

It's an almost— _high_ feeling, how tingly and relaxed and spaced out he feels. It started when Roman started to really fuck his throat, where all Dick had to do was relax his jaw and breathe through his nose and let Roman use him and tell him he's a good boy, and has grown exponentially now that it's over.

It's...nice. Calm. Nothing can touch him here. He's safe. Everything's good.

"You with me, sweetheart?"

A finger under his chin tilts his face up, and he blinks slowly, content and blissed-out under Roman's gaze.

The man examines him for a few seconds and then chuckles. "Well look at you, baby. You just went right down, didn't you? Good to know." He pats his cheek, a gesture that at any other time Dick might consider condescending, and then says, "It seems you missed a spot, sweetheart. Why don't you clean up Daddy's shoes?"

Dick just blinks for a moment, taking a moment for the words to make sense, and then looks down. There are a few drops of cum on Roman's black shoes, and on the floor right in front of them. Dick leans down and drags his tongue across the leather, licking up the cum, and shivers when he hears Roman say, "Oh, what a gem you are. _Good_ boy, Richard."

He moves over to the second shoe, and when he's satisfied that both are clean he begins to sit up, but stills when Roman's hand presses down on the back of his head.

"Wanna make Daddy _really_ happy, baby? Clean up those bits on the floor there."

Dick follows the instruction, licking the floor. It tastes worse than the shoes but he's glad to do it, still so calm and happy and relaxed. And Roman's happy too. Happy with _him._ So it's good.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I'm _very_ happy," Roman tells him, and Dick wonders how much of that he said out loud. "Goddamn. So good for Daddy."

Roman crouches down and kisses him, deep and slow, licking into his mouth. Dick accepts it pliantly, drifting in the warm water of his mind, and then gasps as Roman undoes the belt holding his arms together, pins and needles sparking in his shoulders as they're released for the first time in a while.

Roman rubs at the muscles of his shoulders and it feels so _good,_ so Dick groans to show his appreciation, and Roman chuckles, his hot breath washing across Dick's face.

"What do you say, Richard?" Roman purrs.

Dick blinks heavily, thinking, and then smiles like the sun when it comes to him. "Thank you, Daddy."

He can feel Roman's answering smile—sharp and shark-like—against his skin when the man says, _"There_ we are. You're welcome, sweetheart. Now why don't you relax for a second? Daddy'll be right back, I just want to grab my camera..."

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I will _never_ get over how Bruce has hit his kids on _multiple_ occasions, with never a single word of apology or admission of guilt. Uh-uh, nope, won't move past it.
> 
> Anyways! Hope you enjoyed, and stick around for the next fic, which'll be coming to you soon!


End file.
